Out of Reach
by Ariel Tempest
Summary: Being a spoiled brat just isn't all it's cracked up to be.


Disclaimer: I am not J.K. Rowling. I am not related to her unless it's through some random ancestor about 50 generations back. Please don't sue.  
  
Pairing: Draco Snape...sort of. Not quite.  
  
Warnings: Character POV, reflection with little actual plot. Contains dialogue with the reader.  
  
Author's Notes: I was having a snit when I wrote this. Obviously. It leans a bit more on certain fanon assumptions than I usually do, but it's necissary for the tone.   
  
**Out of Reach**  
  
I suppose it was inevitable. After all, I've always wanted the very thing I couldn't have, even when I was small. I was forever wanting to run, or climb trees, or play in the dirt like the other children, to prove I could reach the next highest branch or win the race. Mother wouldn't let me though. Dignified little boys didn't do that sort of thing. So I sat, spine straight, learning how to drink tea with my little finger out and make small talk, watching the other children play.  
  
Of course there were always advantages. None of the other children could _fly_, they were too little or not smart enough or their parents were too poor to provide them with brooms of their own. My Father wanted me to know everything possible about the world we live in, wanted me to go into school (for there was never any doubt that Hogwarts was my eventual destination, even when father suggested Durmstrang) with as much of an edge as the formidable Malfoy understanding of magic could give me. So I could fly when the other children were restricted to their own two legs, and summon my toys or other confections from across the room with a gesture, and all in all it was a rather grand time. But I really wanted to climb.  
  
Then school started. I went into it with the knowledge that I would be the star student. How could I be anything else? No one in the school new more than I did, at least within the students. Not even _I_ would presume to know more than the teachers. Then _he_ came - Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, and suddenly no one paid attention to me, outside of my own house, and even then I'm half convinced _that_ was only because of the inter-house rivalry. It was galling to stand in that doorway on the Hogwarts express, seeing him talk with Weasley, of all people! To see the cool determination in his eyes as he told me he didn't need my help, didn't need _me_. How could anyone really blame me for reacting poorly, knowing that Weasley got the friendship of the boy who soon proved to be everyone's hero, the center of attention wherever he went, brave and dashing and almost _pretty_ while I was stuck with Gregory and Vincent hulking behind me and Pansy simpering on my arm? I think it was quite to be expected. After all, the alternative would be to keep trying and feel the sting of that denial over and over again until it killed me. I could not climb trees. I could not befriend Harry Potter. I'd learned when to stop trying.  
  
When you can't have something, the most logical course of action is to find something else to chase, something more obtainable. I couldn't climb, so I flew. I couldn't be with Harry, so I'd simply be _better_ than him. It wasn't really that difficult a choice. Who'd want to be with a boy who hung around with Weasley's and Mudbloods anyway? Harry Potter, I quickly decided, was over rated. Proving that to anyone else, however, was impossible. I tried, when Father got me onto the Quiddich team. Armed with my new, 'unbeatable' broom, I thought I'd won. But no, I screwed that chance up. I savored my victory before it was certain and lost it, stupidly. By the next time we met in the air, Potter had a new broom, and my chances of beating him were in hopeless shambles. His ongoing 'adventures' don't help matters any. No one can see that it isn't bravery that puts him in the thick of whatever is going wrong at the school, it's stupidity and a nose big enough to fit the Giant Squid in the lake. The world goes to hell, he nearly gets himself killed, and everybody loves him. If I did that, everyone except my fellow Slytherins would gossip, at length, about what a stupid prat I was and Father would chew me a new one.  
  
So there you have it; I can't run, climb, or compare in any way to the famous, thick skulled Harry Potter and his band of Merry Mudbloods. (Okay, Weasley isn't a Mudblood, he's just a stupid, red-haired git, but that doesn't sound as good.) There comes a point where one wonders if life could really get any worse. (And those of you who are about to point out that my Father buys me whatever my little heart desires at the moment? Shove it. None of that is really important, it just dulls the disappointment. There, I admitted it. You can laugh now. Go ahead, so I have a reason to tell Crabbe and Goyle to pound your face in.)  
  
Then comes puberty. Before you start asking what my goals were for _this_ lovely little point in the hell that is life, allow me to say I didn't have any. That's right, I didn't plan on being the tallest or strongest or anything really outside of perhaps the best at magic (and better than Potter, but I think we've already covered that sufficiently). I just planned on being me, only older and with a lower voice. In that regard, I'm ahead of myself. I could have just about anyone in my house, male or female. This probably includes most of the first years, although that thought leaves me more than a little queasy. (Sniggering children!) I've gained all of the Malfoy height, including a fairly good dose from Mother's side of the family, so I now look _down_ on a good number of people (including, if I may indulge myself in a moment of smugness, the famous Harry Potter). I even gained that height fairly gracefully, unlike Weasel, who spent the better part of the year tripping over things and nearly winding up flat on one end or the other. It would have been amusing if he'd connected with the ground a bit more frequently. My voice leveled out, just a tad higher than my Father's, but still impressively smooth and authoritative, if I put my mind to it. And I passed my O.W.L.s with flying colors.  
  
So what have I found now, you ask, to long over? To wish for? To dream of endlessly until it's hard to concentrate on the things I _should_ be paying attention to if I want to be a proper credit to my family?  
  
Severus Snape.  
  
Oh don't look at me like that! I'm perfectly aware he's old enough to be my father, and lacks the blatant Malfoy good looks at that! Add to that the fact he's my teacher and therefore would probably _kill_ himself before touching me and the situation is perfectly ridiculous. That's not the point. The point is, he's managed to give me what I want, what even Father couldn't give me, what I couldn't earn for myself. If only for the length of a class, he's made me better than Harry Potter. Yes, it's favoritism, a teacher rewarding the son of a powerful friend, but it's _something!_ More than I'd have otherwise, anyway. And...and I can't believe that it's all politics. He's offered to help me with my homework often enough (even though I'm, quite honestly, better at most of it than he is. Potions and Dark Arts really _are_ his strong points!) and he always makes certain to track me down after potions class and make certain I truly understand what I was doing earlier. Despite what everyone else says about my grades in that class - mainly that I earned them by kissing his ass - I passed my O.W.L.s under my own steam, proving that, while I might have done most of my learning in private tutorials, I _have_ learned something. For whatever reason, he cares, possibly more than Father and Mother. And I love him for it.  
  
My favorite times of the day are Potions and when he comes in to make sure we're all bedded down for the night. Anytime I get to see him, be close to him. It makes me feel better about myself, like maybe I'm worth something after all, not just some trophy Father can show off at fancy dinners and buy off with shiny toys. I'm forever wanting to save him from all of the stupid Gryffindors he has to try and teach, none of them there because they actually want to _learn_ what he knows (with the noted exception of Granger, but she's just a show off). Then there are those achingly empty times when I just want to hold him and have him hold me and make all of the frustration go away.  
  
What? No I'm not going to _tell_ him! Don't be a complete moron! You don't just _tell_ people you'll never, ever be able to have that you're in love with them! What are you thinking? Or do you have that ability? Oh for crying out loud, here, I'll try explaining...listen _carefully_. If you tell them, then they'll treat you differently, because they'll _know_. Every move you make or thing you say will be measured for hidden meaning. Every reaction they have _to_ you will be given the same treatment. They'll be careful smiling at you, because they don't want to encourage you when there's no hope, but they don't want to hurt you by not smiling. They'll phrase everything very carefully for the same reason. Those accidental touches - shoulder to shoulder, fingertip to fingertip - will become nearly non-existent and will be apologized for repeatedly. No, I won't tell him. I'll sit in my seat like a good little student and watch him carefully over the edge of my cauldron, like all spoiled rich brats who want what they can't have and would literally die to possess.  
  
A family who will always be there for you...  
  
Friends who like you for _you_ and not for who your parents are...  
  
Someone who loves you...  
  
Someone to love...  
  
I think I'm jealous of Potter and Weasley.  
  
They can climb.  
  
-The End-


End file.
